Drugged
by Faba
Summary: Roger's been a bad boy... and Mark has to take the hit from it. What will happen when Mark falls under the influence of an acidic pill, conveniently put into an Ibuprofen pill bottle, that holds effect for eight hours?


_Ring! Ring!_

"The phone," Roger sighed, getting up. "I'll take it, Mark."

Today wasn't the best day ever. Both men were rather downcast. Maureen was… being herself again, and April… well, she had just died. Mark had tried to be a good friend and comfort Roger, but it was all futile. Roger's moods were becoming more labored and impulsive, and wouldn't be long until Mark would squish under all of the pressures of the real world. He hadn't known that death would befall someone he had loved so early in life. It wasn't fair.

Now, Roger had HIV. There was surely nothing Mark could do about that. They would just have to wait for the heat to die down from the situation.

Mark mumbled his approval, fingering his camera. But, just before Roger picked it up, he said, "Wait, you're actually answering the phone?"

"Uh… yeah…"

Mark stared at him for a split second, and the phone blared, ringing, ringing. "Okay… whatever you say…" And he turned his attention back to the camera.

Then, before the answering machine could kick in, Roger picked it up. From his position, he nodded, saying, "Yeah, I know… in three days, Jeff. No, I said _three_!" Roger threw down the phone in anger, giving Mark the right to stare some more.

"What was that?" he asked suspiciously.

"Nothing you should worry your little blonde head over, Mark," he responded, visibly cheering up. As Roger walked past him, he ruffled Mark's hair playfully. "Dead serious; nothing." Then he left, walking out of the loft's door; something he hadn't done in a week.

Mark scoffed when the guitarist was gone. "Yeah, when pigs fly, Roger. There's always something gone screwy with you."

* * *

"Mark, what's wrong?" Maureen asked, sliding over and sitting on her boyfriend's lap. "You keep rubbing your temples like you… have a headache, or something!"

Mark rolled his eyes. "It's because I _do_ have a headache, genius."

Maureen got up, her eyes flashing. "Okay, suffer then," she griped angrily. "See if I care that y-your damn head hurts. A colony of blood-thirsty mosquitoes could suck all of the blood out of your head, and I wouldn't move a muscle!" She crossed her arms, and sat down at the counter instead.

"Maureen, that's redundant.

She looked around. "Is that an insult?"

"No," he said, "mosquitoes drink always blood; therefore you don't need to point it out, thus making it redundant."

"This is totally off the topic!" she screamed.

This made Mark silent. He was about to tell the girl that she had only made his headache worse by screaming, but, of course, that practically _would_ be an insult. Who knew _what_ she would do if she was genuinely insulted. Probably pelt him with bricks… or _worse_.

Maureen eventually calmed down, and was able to think properly again without blowing a fuse. "Here," she said, handing him a small bottle, "It says, 'Ibuprofen'. Isn't that the stuff you use to cure headaches, and stuff?"

Mark stared at it. "Oh, that's Roger's bottle…" He glanced from her to the bottle.

"Yeah, so?"

The stared at each other.

"Yeah, it's _Roger's_ bottle…" Mark repeated. "He'd _flatten_ me."

"Oh, please, he doesn't even have to know! One pill won't make a difference."

Mark bit his lip. "But, if I have a headache I normally take _two_!"

"Oh, please," she scoffed, shaking the bottle somewhat, "you sissy. Two won't make a difference, _either_." She took two out. "Here, take them."

Mark promptly shook his head.

"Oh, come on, Mark. Don't you want to cure your headache? This is the _only_ way." She dangled the bottle in front of his face.

"Well, I could just wait it ou—"

Maureen practically shoved the pills into his mouth, and he took them then. After all, wouldn't Roger notice if his pills were suspiciously wet? Yeah, Mark determined, Roger wasn't that stupid.

"Now, come on, Pookie," Maureen giggled, pulling him away from the couch and out the door, "You're meeting my parents tonight, remember? We need to prepare you!"

Mark groaned. "Oh, God," he muttered, but allowed himself to be towed around like a dog and out the door.


End file.
